Page 94 of The Captive Duke
Young, his euphemism for whole of mind, body, and spirit, innocent of the evils men could perpetrate on each other, ignorant of war, murder, and torture.
I talk to you…
“Rub my back for a bit?”
He held his palm against her jaw and looked like he might for once pick a fight with her instead of the other way round. Then his lips quirked up.
“If you’re asking for comfort from me, then you must be abjectly miserable, poor thing.” He rolled to his side and tucked her into the curve of his body, his hand making slow, easy caresses low on her back.
And despite how his touch eased her aches and relaxed her closer to sleep, Gilly was indeed abjectly, utterly miserable too. He might talk to her, but by no means was she doing a proper job of talking to him.
Christian’s countess fell asleep easily, which was reassuring. She admitted by night that they should be together bodily, but resisted by day what he was coming to conclude was the only course: they must marry.
He loved her, though how and why this had come about, he could not exactly pinpoint. Something to do with peeled oranges, soft kisses, black silk, and a rather ruthless approach to gardening. He sensed, though, that announcing his feelings would drive Gilly away, hurt her, or maybe frighten her.
He talked to her, and she listened. She did not talk to him, not about what mattered.
Not about her marriage.
Not about how desperately she wanted children.
Not about her feelings for him.
Something haunted her blue eyes; something kept her willingness to trust under tight rein and thwarted Christian’s efforts to woo her.
So he loved her instead, with his body, with his patience, with his consideration, and with his mind.
When she woke before dawn, he let her slip out of bed. She didn’t leave his room, but rather, went behindthe privacy screen, made use of his tooth powder, and came back to join him in the bed thereafter.
“I know you’re awake, Mercia. Your expression is too angelic.”
“I am your angel,” he said, not opening his eyes. “Get over here and let me keep you warm.”
“When did you acquire such an affectionate nature?”
He flipped the covers up for her and considered her question. “In France, maybe. Maybe it was always latent and wanted only the right countess to come along and bring it out.”
“You’re affectionate with Lucy, too, and with your horse and those puppies.”
“They won’t be puppies for long. I’m glad you allow me to be affectionate, Countess. Have I told you that?”
“You tell me, though not with words.”
He liked that reply, liked that she didn’t make it a point of honor to chide him for it, or to pretend she merely tolerated his attentions. She curled up against him easily, their bodies having grown familiar with each other.
“How do you feel this morning?” he asked, sliding a hand over her tummy.
“Somewhat rested. What have you planned for this day?”
“I was considering riding over to Greendale,” he said, rubbing his chin over her crown. “Marcus has been in residence for some weeks, and I’ve yet to pay a call.”
“He’s your heir, shouldn’t he call on you?”
Did she fear Christian’s absence, even for a day? “We’ve corresponded. Your departed spouse left his estate in disarray, so unwilling was he to part with coin before the last needful moment.”
“He was a cheese-paring, nip-farthing old penny-pincher.” She never used one insult when three would do for her late husband. Had a bit of the gunnery sergeant about her, did his Gilly.
“Thus Marcus is up to his ears in squabbling tenants, sagging fences, and weedy crops. One wonders why the man didn’t put his foot down with the old earl prior to this.”
